Dreams of Spring: Poetry & Erotica

One Thousand Waves

2006-07-29T23:05:00.000-07:00

He likes to meet with me in the tatami room at the elegant Thousand Waves Hotel. This is where he keeps me, for several days, and I never know when he will call.

His name is Yoshihiro. I have never truly seen his face, but I would know him if I met him in my waking state, and if there was such a person as Yoshihiro. I gave him the last name, Murasaki, which means, “purple” or “violet”. But I never call him Mr. Murasaki, just Yoshi. Yoshi is my dream lover.

He draws a warm bath for us in the stone tile bathroom. It is in the traditional Japanese style; the tub is deep and the hotel even goes so far as to create a miniature Zen garden to observe through the enclosed window. He washes me with tender caresses, and tells me how much he has missed me. The steam upon my skin awakens my senses, while his hands lull me into my dream.

We reappear without any sense of linear time frame, into the tranquil tatami room. He has already laid out the futon bed for us. A champagne bucket is in the sitting area, a few zabuton cushions artfully placed. A real champagne bucket, the kind that is silver upon a stand, not the plastic bucket you’d get at a motel. This is not that sort of place. The silver champagne holder has my favorite champagne, Veuve Cliquot, nestled in ice. Yoshi knows everything about me, and he knows just what I like.

This goes farther than champagne brands, of course.

He pours the champagne for us. He speaks to me in Japanese as he pours the glasses full. I am wearing a plush white hotel towel; my skin is moist from our bath. Champagne fizzes in delicate bubbles on my tongue. That is when Yoshi kisses me.
After that moment, there is no more time for polite behavior. He leaves that behind with his family in Tokyo. He is successful with his own business, and quite wealthy. So Yoshi looks forward to our days and nights lost in each other at the Thousand Waves. And he doesn’t hold back when it comes to erotic indulgences.

This time, after Yoshi kisses me, he fills my mouth with more than champagne. He calls for room service. The bellboy, a young Japanese man, arrives at the door. He is asked to come inside our room, as Yoshi whispers something to him. Not knowing what he is supposed to do, the young bellboy shifts around in his uniform coat. He stands there for a moment, nervous, uncertain, like a schoolboy, lowering his eyes.

With a wry smile crossing his youthful, handsome face, Yoshi tells me to begin sucking the young man’s cock. He says this with the utmost sophistication. But even so, he says it with certain naughtiness. He wants to watch me do this. Not difficult for me to do, with this fresh from college graduation, honor student and, no question, a handsome man. The bellboy hesitates in his modesty, because he is not sure about what is happening to him. So I undress him, and kiss him deeply upon his beautifully shaped lips, drawing him closer, taking my time to touch him, as he becomes harder and aroused in my hands.

He is breathing heavily, losing his composure. I take over and lay him down on the well-made, silk futon cover. With the decorative pattern of cranes and flowers underneath him, I take his sex into my mouth. Yoshi is stroking his own cock behind me, watching. I am kneeling over the young man’s graceful body; so beautiful, smooth, and pale. I have his hard cock in between my hands, sliding my lips and fingers along his sex, imagining my pleasure when Yoshi tells me to slide upon him. But I wait for Yoshi to tell me. I can taste the young man’s desire with the very tip of my tongue; he is trying to hold back from coming into my mouth, as he shudders and sighs, trembling with want.

Yoshi pushes the velvety head of his penis into my sex. I am so wet; I am slippery and my clitoris is swelling, my pulse beating in my sexual lips, with a tingling sensation that floods through my entire body. He slides inside slowly, his cock giving me that delicious ache. He presses his thumb into my bottom, and the sensations are intensely pleasurable. With the bellboy’s cock in my mouth, I sigh against him, pushing my bottom upwards and closer, as Yoshi fucks me slow. He does this for the longest time, bringing me close to orgasm with every slight movement. He tells me, whispering, that he wants the bellboy to come all over my face. He wants to watch his coming; the hot flood of come all over my flushed cheeks, parted lips, everywhere. I moan louder, imagining the pearly, sticky come of the bellboy who is now plunging his hard sex deeper into my mouth. All at once, Yoshi begins to fuck me in the same rhythm as the young man’s feverish thrusts, until my mouth and face are covered with the hot and glorious coming of the bellboy in my dream.

Somehow, Yoshi now has two men in the room. Aware that this is a dream, I try to forget and lose myself in it. I think, if I wake up from this, I may not get to see Yoshi until the next time I dream of him. Whenever that will be.

Falling deeper into sleep, the dream returns. Yoshi continues to fuck me from behind, but now, there is the young bellboy and also, another. Perhaps it’s the hotel manager, or better yet, the executive chef of the hotel’s fine “five star” sushi restaurant. I’ve now got a cock in my pussy, one in my bottom, and another in my mouth. Yoshi is sliding his deliciously hard sex into me, slowly, halfway in and out of my ass. My body tingles with every sensation, every movement. His cock is smooth like satin, and every vein, every pulse and contraction of muscle so erotic and alive with the raw desire of his fucking.
He has me moaning like a cat in heat. The young bellboy’s cock is throbbing in my pussy, and the sushi chef is heaven in my mouth. I have lost count of my climaxes; my waves of pleasure ebb and flow, until I plateau into a continuous orgasm. Hands are all over; silky caresses and passionate grasps, gentle, hot, and fierce without knowing, just lost in the abandon of my three Japanese lovers.

Later, it is just Yoshi and I. I don’t know if it is morning or afternoon, or evening. He is making love to me tenderly. He whispers, sighs, and tells me how much he wants me. He tells me, he can’t stand to be away from me for long. Oh, he says, please, let’s fuck like this until we can’t stand it. But the more he fucks me, he says, the more he wants. It’s terrible, this kind of desire, he says. He says he feels jealous of the other men when he watches them with me, but it is something complex in his wiring, that makes him want to do the most erotic things. He is kissing my shoulders when he tells me, confessing his love, his desire. He loves me so much he can’t endure being my dream lover anymore. That’s it, he says, I can’t anymore. He holds me and sounds desperately sad. I am startled by his sentimental emotions. It is too difficult to want you so much, he says, and stay in this dream world with you. I want you all of the time, even when I am awake.

When is he awake, I wonder? And where?

He stops speaking, and he is quiet. After confessing his love, his body is upon me, the weight of him pressing entirely upon my aroused clitoris. With the gentle rocking of his hips, his hard sex is deep within me; a sensation much like swimming underwater. In the dream, though, the idea of Yoshi existing in the waking world makes me tremble.

Waves of pleasure flow through my body, my limbs, my belly. His words of desire in Japanese whispered near my ear; I forget the meaning, the translation. I lose my hold on the dream, and I am afraid of waking. I feel daylight through my closed eyes, and the humming sound of lawnmowers outside my window threatens to pull my mind out of sleep. I feel my sex with my hand. Everything fades back, and I am still thankfully asleep. I grasp his thick hair with my hands, his head is between my legs, and I hold on, afraid of losing him.

His tongue searches along my sex, my lips. He holds my clit within the soft and exquisite center of his mouth, as his tongue upon my clitoris brings me back into the dream hotel.

Your sex is like a flower, he says, an orchid, so pink. I am blossoming into another surge of desire upon his mouth. He holds my hips firmly, his tongue light and magical, my back arches, my hands grab his thick, silky black hair, pull his mouth closer until I drown into the waves of his kisses. I am floating, the pulse of my come against his tongue as he makes my clit a pearl; sweetly sucking it until I am lost, sighing and drifting deeper into the dream of him.

I am coming against his mouth as he is feasting upon my juicy sex, lapping, suckling, my lips enveloped around his quivering fingers, one and then two, he pushes his fingers deeper and again, I can’t think anymore, just his fucking, and his hunger for more. My sex is a fruit that has fallen from a tree; a ripe plum, a juicy pomegranate. He never stops; another finger into my bottom, damp and sticky with his come, and I am covered in it, from the bellboy and the sushi chef and Yoshi.

The three men are back to fucking me, and the dream continues. The sensations felt incredibly real. I wonder if this is truly a dream I have again and again, or if this is another dimension. But I am not too interested in getting into abstract details of other dimensions while Yoshi is fucking me from behind. He pulls my hair, grabs my hips, and I am completely lost in his rough handling of me. I scream and cry out as he pulls my hair harder. He slaps my bottom, pounding into me furiously. His loving is savage; he bites, slaps, nearly bruising me with the intensity of his desire. It incites my own desire for Yoshi to be real. I want him so badly that I tell him, I tell him that I want him to come all over me, please, come all over me now. I want his come all over my body, my face, my hair, and my mouth, everywhere. His come is as hot as melted wax and sweet as the sap of a honeysuckle blossom. The sushi chef is coming hotly inside my open mouth, the bellboy is coming in my clutching hands, and Yoshi is coming all over the small of my back. The flood of his pleasure trickles down the crevice of my bottom. I am lost in the exquisite sensations, with my nipples hard as berries, my eyes half-closed in the flurry of excitement. The sensation blurs until the heat of the daylight covers my naked body and I am awake in my bed, alone, nudging the sheets off and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

tanabata night: 3 poems of desire

2006-07-20T23:40:00.000-07:00

paper cup full of wine
lips stained as if I had eaten cherries

the evening fades
and I wait for his reply

Legs trembling,
he asks
why desire is like
the summer heat.

The moon tonight
is the color of wine,
making me drunk
with his question.

I fall asleep, dreaming
of his summer visit

this night,
street lights bloom
like July fireworks

My heart, too, it burns,
blazes with its secret fire

longing for his embrace

Woman from the Sea

2006-07-06T22:06:00.000-07:00

He could not sleep. It was too hot, even in the late evening. There was barely a breeze coming through the windows. The sheets were rough against his skin, and shifting his body against the bed, he felt restless after seeing her that day.

He was walking alone, heading towards the beach, the late afternoon rain leaving everything rainbowed. The clouds drifted like vapor into a brilliant violet sky, as he looked into the orange band of sun along the horizon. The heat was comforting, its intensity never fully brought down by the rain. Something else in the distance took his eyes off the sunset—a small shape of silvery-white, a woman, against the dark rocks. The sound of waves breaking, rolling and whispering against the sand, the sound of everything meeting together; heat and water, ocean and sunlight, as he came closer to her. She was entirely naked, drops of rain upon her body sparkled like jewels upon her skin. His breath opened within him, inhaling the voluptuous summer air, as his eyes dazzled along the little watery drops that dappled her body. Constellations of water, like an entire galaxy before him, the wonder of her flesh as she slept there.

It was this image of her like that, where he felt within his body, the sensation of rippling, wide circles of longing, for this woman, asleep on the beach. He thought of what the warm rain must have felt like to her, the pleasant rush of water spilling over her, and naked also, he imagined the rain upon him, her body there.

He had been alone this trip, returning to the pousada on the remote beach where he once brought Sabina. It was when they were first lovers. He returned there to remember their happiness, and to soothe himself of their parting, to complete the circle of their eight years together. He had loved her this way, with an immense love, and he knew coming to this beach alone would be his farewell to her. The salt water of the sea washed his soul of the sadness he felt. He tried not to hear her voice in his mind, still raw after a few months ago, when she told him about loving another. Here, the place where he fell in love with her, he would only remember their happiness, their desire.

And this woman, alone on the beach, who was she? He wondered if it were his imagination, a mirage of his longing. Getting out of bed, he decided to go for a swim. Opening the door of his little cottage, shaded by cashew and mango trees, he stepped upon the sandy path that went to the beach, under the bright August moon. The sound of the surf was sighing, luring, calling to him.

As he reached the shore he quickly stripped off his white linen pants, throwing them down on the sand. The beach was always deserted, and swimming at night without clothes made his body feel exhilarated, alive. He ran into the surf, the warm dark water like liquid silver under the light of the brilliant moon. Stars glimmered as if they were thousands of eyes, points of light, so far away. Everything was breathing with the luminous moonlight.

His body buoyant in the warm water, he noticed the pleasant way his arms, his hands and fingers felt pushing and pulling himself through the surf; even his feet, toes, legs; everything was alive with an extra sensation of being.

Looking to the shore, the silver strip of white beach glowed. It was then that he saw her again, the woman. She was walking toward the water from the path. This time she wore a white dress, the billowing fabric waving loosely around her legs as she walked. It was the sight of her that seemed like a dream, the moonlight illuminating the white fabric of her dress, her skin, the sand. Watching her, the water lapping to his shoulders, he immediately felt his penis becoming hard. As she came to the place where his pants lay, she stopped to undress, stepping from her clothing and rushing into the water to join him. The motion of the water around his hard penis, her body swimming nearer to him, he surrendered to the pleasure and wonder. She swam closer, smiling at him. He smiled softly, naturally, and without any words she began to swim closer, her body touching his, the slip of her skin brushing against him. She dove into a wave, and he followed, chasing her. Laughing, the woman broke out of a wave and raised her body into shallower water, running farther away.

“Catch me,” she laughed, diving into another swell of the water. He chased her and swam quickly to reach her, wanting her. She dove and raced through the water as swiftly as a dolphin, a sea siren, swimming closer to the black rocks where he first saw her.

He chased her until his arms finally clasped around her body in the water, capturing her, her skin against his. Their quick breathing from their chase slowed as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him nearer, feeling her breasts against him, her belly, the soft hair of her sex against his thigh. His penis became hard again, brushing against her, and playfully she held it in her hand under the water. It was then that he kissed her, the taste of her mouth like an open fruit, succulent and wonderful. She touched him firmly, fingers and hands searching, feeling the shape and delighting in the hardness, as they kissed. She pressed closely to him still, her hands tickling around his cock, grasping it, like some kind of wild sea anemone taking him in.

She pushed her sexual lips warmly against his thigh as the water waved around them. Slippery there and so close, he wanted to thrust himself within her, right there in the water. Waves crashed and rose against the shore, the swell of water surrounded their bodies, kissing, holding each other in the sea. The pleasure from her hand around his aroused penis was teasing, rising, desire flooding through him.

As their mouths tasted and kissed delightfully, she sighed, holding his cock in one hand, grasping his hip with the other, pulling him into her. A large wave swelled around them, and she broke free. She swam playfully away, looking back at him, enticing him to catch her again.

Under the moon, she was more beautiful than he remembered her. He was transfixed by her face, the curve of her shoulders, traced by the silver light. He was not sure if it was real, but the spell of this beach, it affected you like a drug. No longer was anything real as it was in the city, the harshness, the concrete. Here, it was as if your body returned to itself, and he felt more alive, almost vibrating, with all of his erotic nerves awakened.

She swam slowly towards him, as he stayed still, waiting. She came closer and looked into his eyes. “I have been waiting for you to swim at night like this. You have been here for two weeks now. I know, because I have been in the cottage next to yours this whole time.” Her mouth was close to his. He could feel her breath softly against his lips. She held onto his shoulders in the water.
“You have been waiting?” he said, almost a whisper.
“Yes.” She said, as her mouth enclosed around his in a delicate kiss. He kissed her firmly, his arms around her, carrying her in the water, their twined bodies drifting closer to the shallow water. She moved his hard penis against the opening of her moist sex, wanting him to take her then, right where the sand was soft, at the edge of the water. With her hand, she guided him within her. The sudden intensity of sliding inside of her, exquisite, as pulsating and burning rushes of desire coursed through him like sea-tide. The sight and feel of her beautiful gleaming body underneath him, sighing and wanting, gave him a delirious pleasure. She was offering herself to him; he felt the sense that she washed him of all sadness, of loneliness, of the reasons that brought him here to this beach. Warm water rushed around them like the rise and rhythm of their bodies together.

Kissing her deeply, he was completely intoxicated by her. He breathed in as he kissed her, to kiss her fully, to remember the warm scent her skin gave. It was unbelievable, but he could not think of this, afraid it was a dream. No, it was real; the tropical night air still, without a breeze, the heat of this mysterious woman beneath him, the sound of the waves roaring loudly in his ears. He was lost in the world of her, as he felt her body tensing, her breath deepening against his mouth. She grasped his shoulders, held onto him fiercely, her sex clutching around him in those wild little rippling sensations, stirring him to push his hard sex into her, churning deeper, a whirlpool of desire. Kissing her mouth feverishly, pushing inside her with each rush of water that came with the surf, their desire heightened until the sound of their sighs and the waves melted into each other.

Laughing as if drunk, they held each other there upon the shore. “Come,” she said softly, “let’s go and rest.” They rose and walked together, grabbing their clothes, and nakedly went toward the cottages. She held his hand as they walked, smiling, but no words were said. He felt content just being with her, his mind entranced by her beauty, her gaze.

He brought her to his cottage door, into his room, lying together upon his bed in the night that was soon becoming dawn. He did not ask her for her name. Talking lessened the moment, and he was too enraptured to wake from his dream. She seemed to know he was afraid it was not real. She did not break the spell.

He wanted to pleasure her more, feel the rise of her desire, and so, he parted her legs, drawing his mouth near to her sex. In the filtered sunrise from the slatted window, she looked like some kind of Venus; born from the sea foam, now open before him, as he looked upon her. Her breasts high and full, the arc of them curving, her belly, round and fertile, skin the color of abalone shell, pale and luminous. His tongue lightly brushed the little pearl, her clitoris, her sex like a moist shell, the bottom of his lip grazing her sexual lips. Her scent was fragrant, a mixture like warm rain, musky, with the taste of salt from the seawater, mingled with the sweetness of a mango fruit. She responded to his tongue, sighing and moving against his mouth. Her sex was like a wide-open flower, the bud of her arousal like the pistil of an orchid.

He felt his arousal again, his cock hardening and full against the bed, as he lay between her legs, his mouth upon her sex. With her eyes half-open and heavy with pleasure, she gave him a half-smile and pulled him upon her, wanting him within her again, yet, as he knelt before her to do so, she stopped him with her hands. She wanted to look at him now, in the amber daylight, whispering, telling him to lie down upon the bed, to let her look at him. She smoothed her hands along his entire body, washing along his strong legs, wide ankles, feet, toes, and gliding her hands, upward, to his sex, teasing his hardened cock with her hands again, his belly, chest, arms. She knelt between his legs, meeting his eyes with hers, taking his sex in her hand, into her mouth. Her warm tongue lapped along the length of him, taking it entirely within her lips, savoring the shape of him so languidly, sensuously. It was so exquisite a feeling that he could not bear it; the rhythmic sliding of her hands, her mouth.

The feeling came over him hungrily, impatient, wanting to possess this woman, this woman from the sea, with each undulating sensation she gave him. His body was full of fire as if all the heat of the sun were burning through him. Looking at her, it was as if she embodied every woman he had loved. Reaching for her, pulling her upon him, he entered her moist sex ardently, pushing into her with a surge of passion that rose from his heat. He made love to her this way, bringing himself close to his own pleasure, and then staying within her. It seemed as if hours passed, nothing but her, shuddering and rising into the waves of her climax, falling into soft kisses, caresses like water, whispers like sea foam.

Soon the sun was strong and beating through the trees, through the slats of wood from the windows. After their love, he became as drowsy as an opium smoker. He had surrendered himself to the woman from the sea, a Venus without a name, falling asleep in her arms. Not until he fully awoke in the late afternoon did he realize she was gone.

He looked for her in the cottage next to his. Looking through the open door, he saw that nothing was there but the simple furnishings; no luggage or sign of her. The day was shadowed by a late afternoon storm. The breezes picked up as the rain began, and he found himself running towards the sea, to find her.

erotica: dinner at murasaki's

2006-03-19T11:44:00.000-08:00

Carmen opened her curtains late in the afternoon to let in the opal gray light. She was wondering what to wear to dinner at Murasaki’s. The restaurant was one of the finest in San Francisco. Her two closest friends in her culinary school, Kizuki and his fiancée Jo, had invited her to join them that evening. Always enjoying their company, Carmen never felt like a third wheel, but more like a welcome addition. With them, she could delight in her passion for food. Sensual delights such as the texture of a sauce, the enjoyment of certain dishes they prepared together, and then feasted upon. Cuisine had always been her passion. She decided two years ago to follow her dream, and open her own restaurant.

She walked toward her closet, and chose the plum-colored silk skirt with the black top she always favored with it. It was a fine lace that gathered to one side in an asymmetrical slip off her shoulder. The brassiere underneath was also black lace, revealing a hint of her pale skin. She was blonde naturally, although her mother was a dark-haired Spanish woman; a beauty with green eyes that Carmen inherited.

Running a bath, she poured in the vanilla bath oil that she picked up on her last trip to France. She loved the sugary, enveloping scent that made her think of rum-soaked vanilla beans; the black delicate specks that flecked her crème brulee and anglaise. She soaked in the tub, thinking of the class review: the cuisine of Malaysia, and all the spices she loved, the noodles, rice, and stews they had learned. The dark, pungent bricks of “blachan” or shrimp paste, the golden aroma of cumin, musky pods of tamarind, the chilies, and hard, golden disks of palm sugar; they all seemed so exotic and fascinating. Carmen wondered if she would ever experience a life where she could explore other delicacies to add to her repertoire as a chef.

The phone rang. It must be Jo, she thought. She pulled the stopper out of the claw-foot tub, feeling all of the warm water drain away like a colander, when she heard Kizuki’s voice over the answering machine. “Carmen, it’s me… we’ll see you around eight or so, although the reservations are for eight, don’t worry if you are a little late. Oh, and we have a few friends joining us tonight, so…” there was the sound of Jo in the background, giggling. The message continued, “…we’ll see you soon.” The machine clicked off as he hung up.

With her skin still rosy pink from the steaming bath, she stepped into her La Perla panties; an indulgence she treated herself to as the scalloped Italian lace fitted so beautifully around the curve of her hips. She painted a slick smear of sticky plum gloss on her full mouth, to compliment her skirt. It was the color of ripe berries soaked in cognac. A quick spray of fig and chocolate perfume behind her neck released itself in a cool mist.

Murasaki’s was an elegant place, serving sushi, sashimi, and gourmet Japanese delicacies. Kizuki would instruct her tonight on many of the dishes, she hoped. He was already showing great talent as a chef. Carmen admired his hands when he used his knives, so skillfully; handling vegetables, spices, meats, and dough, with such tenderness. Sometimes, she fantasized about him touching her while she watched his culinary skills in the kitchen. When alone in her bed, she imagined his beautiful hands until she surrendered to the waves of bliss that eventually allowed her body to sink into a restful sleep. She wondered if Jo would ever confide in her about Kizuki’s artful touch.

Carmen caught a cab to the restaurant at eight in the evening, and arrived at the entrance of the modestly stylish façade, decorated with stonework and modern lines. The wide copper door pushed softly open, and stepping inside, her heels softly tapped on the splendidly polished wood floor. The Maitre‘d, who introduced himself as Nobu, seemed to anticipate her arrival, and asked if she was there to meet Kizuki’s private party in the tatami room.
“Please,” he said warmly, “this way.”
Carmen smiled demurely, and followed him through the amber-lit restaurant, filled with people dining at tables; laughing, eating, drinking, in a rise of meshed conversation. Nobu showed her to the farthest corner of the tatami area; their table hidden behind sliding shoji screens. Nobu slid the screen open, revealing a low table with Kizuki, Jo and two others, both handsome and quite beautiful men.
“Carmen,” Jo announced joyfully, her dark eyes sparkling with vibrancy, “We’re glad you are here. Let me introduce Kizuki’s cousin, Yoshi, and his friend, Andrew. Come sit here, close to me.” Jo patted the red zabuton pillow that waited for her, empty, at one end of the table.
“Yoshi’s a second cousin,” Kizuki teased both Jo and Yoshi, “second cousin! Don’t think we are that closely related, now.” Kizuki laughed, pouring a warm cup of sake for Carmen. “Here Carmen, some sake. We just ordered the tuna tataki and the abalone with garlic sauce. And by the way, Andrew is Korean, so fortunately he is not related to me.”
“Oh, thanks, Kizuki, I, uh, well, I won’t say in front of the ladies here.” Andrew laughed, his good-natured smile showing a kind face and a genuine personality. He wore a silky gray button down shirt, black pants, and refined wire-rimmed glasses that framed his handsomeness. His thick, black hair was spiked stylishly with some sort of gel. He smelled of warm spice and black tea, mingled with a citrus scent that Carmen liked.

Yoshi remained silent, although apparently engaged by the friendly repartee with a knowing smile. Composed, shy, he looked at Carmen for a moment. He wore denim jeans, with a raisin-colored silk sweater. It seemed there was more to him than what showed on the surface. Yoshi drank slowly from his cup, and smiled at Carmen before looking away.

Carmen loved the warm tingle of sake upon her tongue. The private room was enough to contain all of them comfortably, and a sense of warmth infused within her. She observed Jo’s unique beauty with familiar ease as she sat so close. Next to Carmen’s other side was Andrew.

“Since we are friends with the owner as well as the chef, we asked them to serve us omakase, chef’s choice.” Kizuki said graciously. Carmen feasted her eyes momentarily upon Kizuki’s hands, and then pulled her focus away to her empty sake cup. Andrew, noticing this attentively, reached for the hot sake carafe to offer her some more. She nodded yes, saying the word, yes, softly, reminding her of how she said it while making love. She wanted to say it had been recently, but, since she broke with Kevin, no one else had heard her say that word often at all, even her. It felt like an empty pillow of a word that upon the moment of saying, filled.

“Ah, omakase at Murasaki’s. We are dining tonight.” Andrew said, pleased, pouring Carmen’s cup full with a clear stream of hot sake. He smiled, handing the cup to her, and she felt something within her quiver expectantly. Along with this feeling came the sensation of blood throbbing through her, veins dilating, and a flutter of desire dancing in her limbs, her belly, her sex.
“So, Jo and Kizuki say you are quite a good chef. What is your most favorite thing to make so far?” Andrew began, looking at Carmen with a gentle, sincere expression. He watched her face, her pretty mouth, waiting.
“Well, let’s see, I love pastry. I’m very good at dessert, and I’m not a bad saucier, you know, béarnaise, bordelaise, aioli, béchamel.” Carmen answered eagerly.
“Hmm. That sounds good. I wouldn’t know one from the other, in French cooking at least. My Korean mother would call a sauce Kochujang, and then there’s Kochu Chang, of course.” Andrew laughed. “I know how to make all of them.”
The “m” of his last syllable made his mouth noticeable to Carmen. She looked at the place where both his lips met, and imagined kissing him. She liked the sound of his voice. The tips of her fingers touched her sake cup. She noticed how close their hands were to one another’s.
“Well, yes, French cooking is what we began with, but now we are also learning more exotic things,” she replied. Did she want Andrew, so suddenly? This thought simmered within her like a pot of creamy soup heated on the fire, ready for tasting and seasoning.

Next to her, as Carmen dropped her eyes downward, she noticed, Kizuki’s hand in Jo’s lap. He was gently lifting Jo’s black satin skirt, baring a sliver of her marzipan skin, caressing the inside of her leg, at the top near her knee, lovingly, with his fingers. Kizuki whispered something naughtily in Jo’s ear, and she giggled in response like a mischievous schoolgirl.

“Yoshi,” Jo coquettishly asked across the table, “are you still seeing Melissa?”
Yoshi looked downward at his cup. “Not lately.”
Jo’s expression was playful, but kind, toward Yoshi. She wanted to see him enjoy the evening, given his tendency to brew over emotional things. “I think you should meet a woman who knows how to cook, but that’s just my opinion.” Kizuki interjected. His eyes led Yoshi to believe he meant Carmen. Yoshi smiled, brightening. “You’re probably right about that.” He watched Carmen through side-glances, her elegant profile, her graceful motions, so natural and pleasing.
“All Melissa knew was how to heat up take-out. Even the rice. You’d think the girl could operate a Zoshirushi cooker, but she managed to burn the rice every time anyway.”

Kizuki made a face, thinking of burned rice. He sipped his sake, and heartily went for more. Yoshi was lightening after the sake as well. Kizuki poured more into Yoshi’s cup. Kizuki leaned toward Yoshi as he poured, saying to him in confidence, “Carmen’s pretty delicious, I think. And she can cook.”
“Hmm. Delicious indeed.” Yoshi said discreetly to Kizuki.

The screen opened, and a waitress in a modernized kimono arrived, balancing a tray, placing the tuna tataki on the table with a small black bowl of ponzu sauce. Square raku plates were in place in front of them, as well as the ebony chopsticks with gold inlay, the cloth napkins. The tuna tataki was sumptuous, and as pink as the inside of a rose blossom. Yoshi’s face lit up at the sight; a look of longing peppered with a morsel of polite restraint. Then eagerness dashed quickly across his face. “Ah, the tuna tataki looks like a delectable woman!” Yoshi exclaimed, his virile expression surprisingly lustful with the vision of the well presented dish. Everyone laughed in amusement, and soon, Yoshi’s face nearly turned the color of his beloved tuna. He shook it off somehow, and laughed with everyone, even Carmen, who imagined Yoshi before a woman’s open sex, tasting her with uninhibited amazement.
“Let’s taste her then,” laughed Kizuki, his chopsticks poised, taking some tuna for himself, drizzling the syrupy ponzu sauce upon the succulent fish with an expert motion. Carmen observed his hands with a shiver of yearning, then a glance to Andrew, and then to Yoshi. She watched Yoshi’s eyes flutter in pleasure as he tasted the tuna tataki, pleasing him so much, he moaned in satisfaction. She noticed Andrew watching her with a glazed smile that felt like he returned her desire. Jo let the tuna melt on her tongue, only a dribble of ponzu, and then another slow taste to her painted mouth. Carmen wondered what Jo’s tongue tasted like with the tuna covering it. Would she want to kiss her with the essence of tuna tataki?

“Everyone seems to like her, it seems, Yoshi.” Kizuki said with feigned apology. “Looks like you are going to have to share!” Kizuki teased, leaning close to Jo, kissing her lips lightly. After a few staccato kisses, their kiss became more passionate.

“Mmm. Must be the taste of that delectable woman that makes them kiss that way,” said Andrew , taunting Yoshi next.
Andrew gave Carmen a sly gaze. Kizuki smiled at this, as he and Jo slid temporarily away from their delicious kiss.

“Yes, delectable women do that for us.” Kizuki glazed over the subject like a brush of flavorful demi-glace on an entrée. Jo trembled with heat, her oval face blooming with a flush of cherry pink. Carmen felt her body soften like a poached pear in brandy; syrupy and sticky with desire, as she ate the tender fish and sipped her sake.

Next to arrive was a plate of musky, slippery lotus sprouts dressed lightly in rice vinegar; tiny abalone in a garlic sauce; warm sea urchin roe set on pickled shiso leaves on broiled sweet shrimp. The screen shut closed for their privacy after each delivered plate, by the almost magically appearing hands that brought platefuls of heavenly food. Kizuki plucked a bite from the plate first.

With the tips of his sticks, his long fingers controlling the motion, he placed an abalone upon the ivory inside of Jo’s arm. He lifted her arm to his lips, looking into her eyes solidly, and tasted it off of her skin. The combination of sharpness and sea-sweetness filled his mouth, the sensual tasting on Jo’s skin made her shudder and wriggle. Carmen could barely stop the dizzying volume rise within her as she watched this.

Andrew watched Carmen longingly study Kizuki and Jo. He then decidedly took an abalone, which dripped from the firm clutch of his pointed sticks.
“May I see your hand?” Andrew asked Carmen. She, without hesitation, held her hand out, cupping it slightly, her palm facing upwards. Andrew set the tiny abalone inside the bowl of her moist hand. With his warm hand cupping hers, he lifted it to his mouth, eating the white-fleshed abalone out of her naked palm. The tickling sensation was so arousing, she flushed, her breathing quickened, her mouth open slightly, as Kizuki, Jo, and Yoshi admired the scene. The scent of the fresh ocean, of Andrew’s skin, spicy and warm, feeling the light-as-meringue thrill of his mouth on the center of her palm, made her dissolve like caramelized sugar in a hot pan.
“May I?” asked a tender Yoshi, as he took her other hand. With another sauce-laden pearly abalone, Yoshi placed it also in her palm to eat from. The sensation of both men tasting abalone out of her hands made her body rise like a soufflé in an oven of heat. Kizuki and Jo watched Carmen, her black lace top slipping further off of her shoulder. Kizuki slipped his fingers underneath Jo’s skirt, feeling her slick oyster wetness on his fingers. Kizuki then kissed Jo again, while Andrew and Yoshi made a delicate banquet from Carmen’s hands.

Carmen stopped Andrew for a moment, pausing, taking her hand, her chopsticks, and choosing a bite for herself. She placed it in Andrew’s hand, and with her eyes locked on his, tasted the saline and velvety abalone upon his palm.
Kizuki dipped his fingers into the lake of ponzu sauce, the fingers he touched Jo with, dabbed them into the urchin roe, and reached over to Carmen, offering to place a taste in her mouth. Carmen, after tasting the abalone from Andrew’s hand, looked up at Kizuki’s erect fingers, and wrapped her mouth around them. The feeling of Kizuki’s fingers in her mouth was enough for Carmen. Her entire body coursed in electric waves of tingling sensations, savoring even the tips of his two fingers with her tongue.

Jo watched this in delight. Jo lifted Carmen’s skirt with a slow hand, her fingers searching underneath her lace, feeling the damp heat of her sex. “Carmen,” Jo sighed against her neck, “I have always wanted to taste you.” Carmen felt Jo touch her with aware fingers, the way a woman touches another woman. Carmen smiled, feeling Jo’s soft breath on the inside of her neck, and said yes, a yes that she had wanted to say for awhile. They kissed slowly, soft light kisses on their painted mouths. The feminine, soft mouth of Jo’s felt intoxicating to Carmen; like tasting the ripest cherry on a summer day, not able to stop at one or two. The three men watched the two women kissing with a heady fascination. Carmen pulled her mouth away, and as she did, savored the feel of Jo’s kiss by sealing it with a slow taste of sake. They smiled at one another knowingly, as if to say, there is more to come.
“When our main courses arrive, perhaps a taste of that delectable Carmen will be satisfied?” Kizuki suggested amorously to Jo, as Andrew and Yoshi cleaned the plate with their chopsticks, each holding Carmen’s hands, and both watching Jo touch her underneath her skirt. With each lick and slide of the tongue to their sticks, they savored the last mouthfuls.

Kizuki slid the screen slightly open, asking a waitress for another round of sake. “Hokusetsu?” he asked the waitress. It was his favorite kind of sake. The screen slid shut with a push from Kizuki’s fingers, those fingers that Carmen dreamt of. Hands that held things like a basket of red and green chilies as if handling a basket of rubies and emeralds. Every motion was with adept care. In the day during class, Kizuki handled pink shrimp like a woman’s toes, fingered through ramekins of golden spices with the care of a lover, and tasted a Béchamel sauce with a dip of his finger ever so adoringly. Carmen’s excitement grew as she knew how close he was, and more importantly, how close his hands were. The taste of his fingers still lingered on her tongue.

They all slowly shifted, waiting for the next course. Andrew’s mouth looked different to Carmen, delectable like a halved fruit. He wanted to kiss her, but it seemed he was waiting, making a rich reduction of her liquid desire. Concentrating the moment so, Andrew turned her hand in his, lingering near the flame of Jo’s hand. The sensation of climax was rising within Carmen, as Jo still so deftly touched, a slight touch to the outside of her wet sex. The fabric of their skirts and the wide cloth napkins covered the obvious, so that when the waitress arrived with the hot sake, it looked as if nothing was taking place. The sake, poured by Kizuki, tasted especially good. Then the arrival of the next course: swirls of squid pasta in a creamy sauce, and a glistening Chilean sea bass in truffles. The screen shut again. They inhaled the fragrance of the meal before them. Jo slipped her hand away, resting it lightly on the inside of Carmen’s thigh.

Andrew’s hand, on Carmen’s other thigh, slipped gently beneath her dress in Jo’s place. His fingers searched for her sex, as Carmen watched Kizuki spool the inky coils of pasta upon his plate. Yoshi deftly sunk his sticks into the fish, halving a small island of white flesh for himself. As he reached for the fish, Carmen lent her arm out. His eyes met hers in sensuous acknowledgement. He placed the portion of warm, white fish upon her wrist, and ate it, little by little, off of her.

Andrew delicately felt Carmen’s sex, so hot, glossy with a honeyed texture. He sighed, eyes closed, longing for her, when he felt her this way. His own cock was hard like the firm flesh of a sea cucumber. She offered her other arm to him, as he managed to choose a bite with his one hand, placing a bite of earthy truffle and buttery fish upon her arm to taste. Andrew’s mouth tasted the inside of her arm as if kissing her mouth. Jo unzipped Kizuki from his pants, and held his firm, hard sex in her hand. She carefully tasted a mouthful of inky pasta, sucking it in with relish. Her hand still on Kizuki, she then whispered to him, telling him to stand. With a finger, she dipped into the truffle cream, and smeared it all over Kizuki’s erect cock. Delightfully she inhaled his fragrance mingled with the smoky infusion of truffles. She closed her mouth upon him, with everyone watching. Her mouth tasted Kizuki’s cock like a connoisseur; a long slow taste to the end of his mushroom-shaped tip, and then, repeating this, again and again.

Her hunger for his cock was intense and beautiful; the slow and erotic way she took him into her mouth, felt the velvety shape of him with her tongue, each ridge and vein, like tasting one of the finest dishes on the menu. Jo loved Kizuki in a way that expressed itself through her handling of him. She kneaded his hips with her two hands, pulling him into her mouth, breathing in his musk, tasting the truffle cream and his sex, with the wonderful zest of love between them. Kizuki closed his
eyes, lost, not caring if the others were watching.

Yoshi nibbled the sea bass with elation upon Carmen’s arm, and Andrew, tasting Carmen’s other arm, led his tongue upwards to her shoulder. He placed some truffle cream upon it with a finger, tasting there, as his other hand continued to touch her, lightly, barely, her clit caramelized by his touch, syrupy by a hot degree. Her orgasm flooded her entire being suddenly, the small room swirling, and all her senses heightened, her body lost in waves, and waves. The sight of Kizuki’s cock, Jo’s mouth upon it, the feel of Andrew’s hand upon her sex and his mouth on her shoulder, the flurry of Yoshi’s mouth, made her body surrender to the pleasure. When Kizuki came in a hot flood of cream inside Jo’s mouth, the room swelled with luxuriant abandon.

Yoshi wanted to try more of the sea bass in truffles. He moved closer to Carmen, asking if he could try it upon her bare foot. She offered her foot to him, after smoothly removing her black heel. Yoshi, with the care of a pastry student, spread a thick, warm daub of sauce upon her toes. His pretty lips seized her toes, tasting them in the utmost sensual fervor. Lips like the flesh of sweet hamachi.

Carmen leaned against Andrew, kissing his mouth tenderly. She tasted the flavors of saline, sweet, and smoky upon his kiss. She felt Yoshi suckling her toes; the hot feeling of his eager mouth.

Jo and Kizuki kissed and fed one another, small bites of pasta and truffle-soaked fish. Andrew whispered to Carmen, saying that he wanted her, yet he would wait, take the time, to know her more, that it didn’t have to be now.

Andrew liked to allow his desire to froth into a cloud of foamy longing, willing to wait as no other men could bear to stand such things. It made the intensity of want even sweeter to him, when finally tasted.

They finished the meal, arranging themselves for the arrival of hot Sakura-Yu tea and dessert. Sakura tea was served for special occasions, and this occasion coincided with the beginning of spring. Cherries were brought to the table, nestled in a basket, and a dessert of chawan-mushi; an egg custard served in little tea tumblers for each of them. Carmen dipped a small spoon into her custard, the flesh of cherry in between her teeth, sweet and tangy. Before she could taste hers, Andrew tasted a bite of his custard, and moved toward Carmen, kissing her mouth, blending the flavor of cherry and custard within their kiss. Yoshi kissed the inside of Carmen’s bent leg, upward, ignoring his dessert entirely. The taste of her skin to his mouth was dessert enough. Jo whispered to Kizuki that she wanted to taste Carmen, for dessert, with Yoshi. Kizuki motioned for her to do it then, and moved closer to Carmen, holding her hand in his.

The sizzle from Kizuki’s hand to Carmen’s made her willing for anything. If she could just bask in the sweetness of Kizuki’s hand for that instant, that slice of the evening would be the most delicious. But Kizuki, the fluent chef that he was, knew how to create the best for all. He slid his hands around Carmen’s waist, and lifted her willing ripe body with his agile hands, placing her upon the low table, and with those hands that Carmen melted for, he displayed her sex for Yoshi and Jo to taste. His fingers then touched her around and upon her clitoris with such sensitivity, like a Chantilly crème upon a fresh raspberry; it was so light a touch. This touch made her pleasure foam as Jo and Yoshi’s mouths took turns tasting her. Jo’s tongue tasted the saline and the sweet with each soft mouthful; Kizuki’s taste still coating her mouth. The bouquet of all flavors was arousing to her.

“Umm, yes,” Jo sighed, “mignonette sauce! Or is it caviar?” she smiled, tasting Carmen while Yoshi watched. She placed her ladyfingers within Carmen’s sex, “A galette of candied plum.” Kizuki mused, watching Jo. Andrew grazed his mouth to Carmen’s thigh, watching Jo as well. A bubbling sigh came from Carmen as she oozed with another creamy orgasm. “A sabayon, more like.” Jo breathed in satisfaction. She felt sated, her layered eyes glancing at Carmen, then Kizuki. Her two goblets of eyes that glimmered in the color of a dark Madeira wine soaked over Kizuki. She was pleased.

Yoshi’s clear broth of male lust boiled within him. The vision of Jo licking Carmen so tastily made him excruciatingly hard, nearly bursting from his jeans. He could not stand it any longer. Jo allowed Yoshi to taste Carmen now, as she settled nearer to Kizuki. So, his mouth tasted Carmen; upon her hand, her arm, and now, her sex, and the ache of his want was unbearable.
He wanted Carmen, but not here. He longed for Jo, but obviously, Kizuki would not maintain such fairness in this banquet. He decided he would not do anything then, but the taste of her was like nothing else. The black and violet lace pulled aside, a sexy garnish of a view, made Yoshi tremble like a thickening soubise. He looked up at her. Carmen considered the temperature of Yoshi’s face, and knew he needed some kind of attention. She pressed her bare foot into the rigid outline of his cock, which was throbbing against his buttoned jeans. He would come, just like that, as Carmen moved and pressed her foot against him in a ribbon of puréed satisfaction, stroking him like that, with the bottom of her foot feeling the hot flood of his pleasure through the fabric.

Andrew whispered into Carmen’s ear, yes, I want you, so beautiful, just like this. Then he kissed her mouth feverishly, his hands pulling her face close, fragrant with sex and food, the feast for them all. The hot flower of Sakura tea filled their mouths. Cherries burst in red juice upon their tongues. The spring night was fragrant with happiness.

erotica: dark cloud, falling rain

2006-03-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

An erotica story, creating an experience of mine into fiction...

Dark Cloud, Falling Rain
Copyright © 2004 by Shiori Murasaki

It is the memory of him that stays within me. When I try to imagine him, I see his face as if I am looking at a photograph in sepia. His face: luminous as warm porcelain, smooth as lychee fruit, his eyes questioning. Chinese eyes, full lips, a sincere mouth, a luxurious mouth. He is beautiful, unreal almost. But I will never again see his face. I can only find him through the dark clouds of my dreams.

He exists in this memory, where I can look at him: tall, in a gray suit, red and blue lights curving along his elegant silhouette, in the dimly lit nightclub where we met. Here he appears, as if out of a vintage photograph, or a 1930’s film noir. His slender hands are exquisite, His hair; thick, black as the ink-dark night outside. Then his face appears, like the moon from behind a cloud, so beautiful, that if its full light fell upon me, I would shatter into a sky of desire.

I was a nude dancer in one of the nightclubs in New Orleans.

I was twenty-two. I had moved away from my family to live my own story. My face held the wild beauty of gypsy immigrants; long, dark hair, eyes the muddy color of a river. They held a secret; my eyes, my smile. My family had splintered apart from divorces, then distance, moving apart like the earth. The fragmented, dry ground of California crumbled underneath my feet, so I left to find a place where the earth was soft, where I could take root and become someone else. Yet I have come to expect that things do not last, not even the solid earth. The earth fractures, erodes.

How I became a dancer at the Desire Club on Bourbon Street is another story; a story that does not belong to this memory. It is that other story, though, that brings me to this place, this moment I am telling you about.

There I am: a young woman, in silk, nude underneath my red dress, nothing else but the dress. My body as a blossoming flower, magnolia-white. The silk dress falls away, revealing my nakedness, standing in front of him, in high heels. Stage lights spilled over my skin, sticky with humidity, desire. He watches my body move; smoking a casual cigarette, holding his gaze upon me. It is then our eyes meet. Others that watched me as I danced on stage fade into shadow. I don’t see them. In that first moment of seeing his face, it glowed with a mysterious light, surrounded by spirals of haze in the smoky room, as if he emerged from a dark cloud.

Like a blossom wrapped in cellophane waiting in a market, he chose my body. After the stage, back in the silk, the red silk gown that I wore that evening. What if we had met somewhere else, I thought in that moment. I could imagine us in a another place, where the story changes. Where he takes me with him, somewhere far, to another life. But in that that night garden, fragrant and beautiful, he chose me-- pollen dusting his lovely hands, and for that moment, far away, nothing in the world but those hands.

I am there to show my body, for his pleasure, for others.

“Please, will you dance for me?” he asked, looking up at me as I descended the stage steps. His voice was pleasant, the scent of him was warm; a faint, warm scent of sandalwood cologne. He seemed eager, like a college student; he could not wait to ask for me.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice softened by the music, by the roomful of voices; men laughing, drinking, carousing at the round cocktail tables surrounding the center stage. I gave him a reassuring glance.

Up the stairs, his hand holding mine, up into the darkness. I stand before him in the space where he waits, for my body to charm him, moving with the rhythms of the music. He sits and watches me in the private dance room, hidden only by a small velvet curtain. With the music, I move my hips like a belly dancer, slowly, my body guided by eroticism. I turn my back to him and look over one shoulder. His hand reaches delicately to caress the curve of my hip. I stop. His touch is not allowed, a club rule, but it possesses me. Somehow, I cannot tell him not to, like the others. The feeling of his hand upon my hip resonates through my body, setting off little fires through my veins. I can hear the blood rushing into my ears, the soft explosions of desire.

I begin to undress again, as I did before, onstage. He stops the dress from falling; his hand reaches, carefully lifting the silk, pressing it against my skin. “No,” he says. “Please, leave it on.” His eyes follow along the slope of my back, pulling up the straps, a continent of mysteries to him. As I turn to face him, he holds my gaze, looking at me intently; a gaze that touches me all over. I am drunk with the scent of his skin, like incense, only half my arm’s reach and I could run my hand along his shoulder, the bare pearl of his shoulder underneath the gray suit as I imagine it.

Gray silk, scent of tea leaves, wet grass, scent of damp earth, heat of his mouth. He fades away when I reach for him in this memory. When I linger in the sensory remembering, he returns. Then I see the stage, a whirling pool of neon shimmer. I see the curve of his cheekbone, and the gray suit. I recall the feel of his hand when it first touched my hip.

“Stay with me,” he asks, as his long, willowy fingers select the carefully folded one-hundred dollar bills like delicate leaves of origami paper from his wallet.

“Please,” he says, “stay and talk. I want to be near you.”

I did not try to know this man from China, elegant, smelling like fresh linen. His face searched mine. But I did not want to be known. I was not there for that. He mentioned he was traveling. When he spoke of this, he seemed lighter.
“My family lives in Wu-han where I grew up, but now I live in Hangzhou.” Then he lit up a cigarette and looked downward. “That’s near Shanghai.” he remarked, waiting for a response. Not knowing where it was, only the name, I smiled softly, and said nothing. My thoughts drifted along maps and the expanse of a land far away. Then I thought, he could be just passing time, on a business trip, busy and seeking escape. He did not tell me his real name, or if he did, I don’t remember it, only that part of it meant Dragon in Chinese.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Not from here?”

“No,” I reply. A small smile crosses my face. I look at him. I am not sure of what to say. He is searching for words between us, but the space, it fills with a river of longing. We just stay there like that, looking at one another as if we are the only people left in the entire world; in the half-lit room with the velvet curtain, red walls, color spinning around us. He turned his face to me as if to say something, but drifted somewhere else, and mentioned how beautiful I was. I placed my hand gently in his; skin touching with the softness of leaves falling.

Rain, warm and soft, fell inside my body. His hand closed around mine, pulling me near. He drew my body toward the center of his parted legs.

“Will you dance for me, again?” he asked through the continuous music, a hypnotic rhythm. My body swayed like sea-grass in the tide. Slowly, he pulled me against him. His soft hands stroked the silk dress, barely so. My arms looped around his neck, the spill of my hair surrounded his face, a cloud. Then, like a sudden rain, he kissed me. A kiss; barely touching mouths, the sweetness of his breath against mine. He traced with his mouth, kissing along my cheek to my ear, and whispered, “May I touch?”

Through clatter of rain falling somewhere outside, through the rising voices, the music in the club, an answer from my body was heard through the storm. For a moment, I forget who I am. I forget and give my body over. “Yes,” I answered, his mouth upon mine, melting into the heat of his kiss.

Under the silk gown, his long fingers, gentle, caressed my leg, along the inside of my thigh, up to my sex. Hesitation. The wandering tips of fingers: one, then, two, scarcely touching my sex, not entering me, just heat from his hand, hovering like a hummingbird. My clitoris became a stamen, circled by his touch, a camellia, my sex yielding. I shuddered against him; the intensity of pleasure rushed through my entire body; rippling, waves undulating throughout each limb, through my hips, stomach. As though by surprise, every part of my being had longed for that moment of awakening. I would have allowed him anything. With my eyes closed, I felt the heat of his hand, like water, like waves.

The surface of my body held in a great liquid heat, as a volcano. The touches of his hand caused the molten world within me to awaken. Everything blurred around us, with fire, with longing.

He simply stayed this way, touching my sex, butterfly-soft. He translated every trace of my response by touch, and lingering there, he waited. His hands held my body in an erotic suspense, where every motion was a whisper, another language. Inside that moment of hesitancy, with a barely audible sigh, he trembled. Then he slipped his hand away, smoothing the silk of the dress against my hip, as if to say, that is enough.

With the heat of his body against mine, through the crisp fabric, through the gray silk, the mysterious hardness of his sex pressed into me. He desired me, his hands damp, searching along my hips. My excitement enflamed; a current of feathery vibrations rushed through my body from his touch. I held his hand and led it back, under my dress. With a surge of intensity, he kissed me deeply, slipped his fingers along the little sea-shell of my sex, and slid them inside. Dizzy from his hands, from his touch, the wild little sensation arose within me, as everything swirled and disappeared into clouds. In the colored spotlights and strobe lights, time dissolved, pleasure drowned everything.

From his wallet, more one hundred dollar bills, carelessly handled, fell into my hands, into my purse, bringing us back to where we were: in a stripclub, on a street named Bourbon, with red neon signs of desire drenching the night in its pomegranate stain. The red-orange light on his face, the flick of a lighter, the click, the smoke rising into curls of obscurity. It really meant nothing, the money, just paper. Just leaves falling from wind, scattered.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “No, I shouldn’t ask you that.” He paused, watching the end of his cigarette burn. Then he looks at me, searching my face, and says, “I wish I could take you with me.”

“Where would you take me, then? Not back to Hangzhou,” I said with a tender look.
He smiled gently, yet behind the smile, was sadness, like something lost, a cracked surface of his reserve. He looked down into the shadow. “I would like to,” he said, “take you with me someday.”

I forget how we parted, for it is just this fragment I have in my mind. I didn’t know how I would long for the man from Hangzhou; a dragon-cloud vanishing into the night. In this memory, I hear him say, “I wish I could take you with me,” his voice, echoing somewhere inside this lost place. That moment, elusive as reflected light upon water, beautiful and never again tangible. Only the light of the memory.

I tried to forget about him. I left Bourbon Street, and moved back to San Francisco. To find this man I looked through other men; for evenings in hotels with Chinese businessmen, traveling, needing the warmth of company. It filled a curious desire, but like moments lost, I knew it was just to find the one moment with him. I accepted the proposals; only from those that reminded me of him, perhaps the elegance was more or less there, the polite gestures, maybe the inflection of the soft voice slightly similar. They paid for our evenings: dinners in shiny red dining rooms among a background of laughter, exotic language resonating against the lacquered walls, blurring my mind with the memory of him. When the waiters spoke Mandarin or Cantonese, or some other dialect, to the man I was with, was it to say, nice catch, the white woman, lovely anyway?

Years have passed since; I married, then the children were born, and I moved into another life. Another life outside of the one I knew, the one I led at the Desire Club.

But I knew that he was what I was searching for in them, back then. My body, asking each man, Where are you? Where can I go to find you again? Longing for the man I met in the darkness; the man that knew the secret code of my body, tattooed with his invisible calligraphy. To him, I answer, yes, as my voice whispers this, softly fading, like falling rain.

the glowing plum blossom is the spring night's moon

2006-03-15T15:37:00.000-08:00

I cannot say
which is which:
the glowing
plum blossom is
the spring night's moon.

Izure tomo/ wakare zari keri/ haru noyo wa/ tsuki koso hana no/ nioi nari kere

-- Izumi Shikibu
(974?-1034?)

Last night's full moon shone down, drenching everything in deep blue. Blue is a color I have used in nearly every painting-- prussian blue, the deepest indigo-- then ultramarine, violet-blue, cerulean, cobalt-- all blue oil paint tubes are stained by my paint-covered fingers, the colors I stain my words, my canvases, all contain an element of water, or sky, or the intangible color of blue from the moon. The full, billowing clouds were outlined last night by the light-- that silvery, magical light-- with the large magnificent face of the full moon shining through.

Through the window pane
even though we are far away
we share the same moon.

By its silver light, I will
come to you, wearing nothing
but our most secret dreams.

nom de plume

2006-03-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

On Her Decision To Stop Wearing Her Old Name

gone, like a branch from a tree
the fire consumes
until there is nothing left
but the ash and memory

look, the tree, it is still flowering
new leaves, new blossoms
she is still a tree that has weathered
so many seasons

but the woman who dances
in gossamer clothing
she is like that tree
changing, revealing
wearing a new name
like new leaves in the spring

the woman from the sea

2006-03-13T00:07:00.000-08:00

Benten is the Japanese Queen of the Sea, a dragon woman who swims through the ocean with white snakes.(hmm... let me interpret the symbolism here...) Of course, the mermaid, the half-woman, half-fish, ocean goddess, is the Aphrodite of sensual dreams. Her abundant, flowing hair, symbolizes abundant love. The ocean-born Venus/Aphrodite is the oceanic fertility goddess. The mermaid is the ancient symbol for 'goddess', and the femme fatale siren of passion, love, and sea-foam sensuality.

*** The following erotica piece was an erotica story written for a lover, about a dream. It was about the woman I wanted to be for him (as I could not be his in reality). I wanted to create a magical woman to console him. This was written without an ending, as a dream... ***

"He could not sleep. It was too hot, even in the late evening. There was barely a breeze from the open window of the cottage. The sheets were rough upon his skin, as he shifted his body against the bed. He felt restless after seeing her that day.
He was walking alone, heading towards the beach, with the late afternoon rain leaving everything soaked in color. Turquoise water, emerald green leaves, every color, sparkled in the light. Clouds drifted into vapor, becoming a brilliant violet. The heat was comforting as he walked along the sand, its intensity cooled by the rain. Something else in the distance took his eyes off of the sunset. A shape, a woman, against the dark rocks. The sound of waves breaking, the roll and whisper upon the shore, the sound of everything meeting together; heat and water, ocean and sunlight, as his bare feet brought him closer to her.
She was naked, drops of rain upon her body, beaded like jewels upon her skin. He was keenly aware of his breath, inhaling the voluptuous summer air, as his eyes dazzled along her with all of its sparkling light. She was not just a woman; it seemed, but some kind of mythical sea siren. Constellations of water, an entire galaxy before him, the wonder of her flesh as she slept there, washed ashore like Venus, born from the sea foam.
It was this image of this woman that rippled inside him. He soaked in the dampness of the air from the passing tropical rain. Within him, it conjured sadness, an ache. He missed Sabina.
He had been alone this trip, returning to the posada on the remote beach where he had once brought Sabina. It was when they were first lovers. He returned there to remember their happiness, and to soothe himself of their parting. To complete the circle, of eight years together, he decided to return to the place where it began. It wasn’t, at the time, so important to him. He thought impulsively to bring her to this beach, just so that he could be alone with her, without his family, hers, all of the bustling city life and complications in the way. He had barely known her for long. It was just a simple place to be alone.
And then, he loved her. How it entered his heart without him knowing. He loved her with an immense love, and the realization that she was no longer his, pained him deeply. He tried not to remember the sound of her voice a few months ago, when she told him she loved another. Here, on this beach, he would only remember their happiness, their desire.

Getting out of bed, he decided to go for a swim. The thick foliage of cashew and mango trees surrounded the little cottage; their swaying silhouettes cast dark blue shapes in the full moon’s light. The scent of musky fruit hung in the air, as pungent as the memory of Sabina’s body underneath him.
He walked along the path to the ocean. As he reached the shore he quickly stripped off his white linen pants, throwing them down on the sand. Swimming at night without clothes on made his body feel exhilarated, alive. He ran into the surf; the warm, dark water flowed like liquid silver under the light of the brilliant moon. Stars glimmered thousands of eyes, points of light, so far away. Everything was breathing with the luminous moonlight.
His body felt buoyant in the salt water. He noticed the pleasant way his limbs felt pushing and pulling himself through the surf, tingling with an extraordinary sensation of being.
Looking ashore, the silver strip of white beach glowed. It was then that he saw her again, the woman. She was walking toward the water from the path. This time she wore a white dress, the billowing fabric waving loosely around her legs as she walked. It was the sight of her that seemed like a dream, with the moonlight illuminating the white fabric of her dress, her skin, the sand. Watching her, the water lapping to his shoulders, he immediately felt his penis becoming hard. As she came to the place where his pants lay, she stopped to undress, stepping from her clothing and rushing into the water to join him. The motion of the water around his hard penis, watching her swim nearer to him, he surrendered to the pleasure and wonder. She swam closer, smiling at him. He smiled, softly, naturally, and without any words between them, she swam closer still, her body touching his, the slip of her skin brushing against him. She dove into a wave, and he followed, chasing her. Laughing, the woman broke out of a wave and raised her body into shallower water, running farther away.
“Catch me,” she said breathlessly, diving into another swell of water. He chased her, swimming quickly to reach her, wanting her. She dove and raced through the water as swiftly as a dolphin, swimming closer toward the black rocks where he first saw her.
He chased her until his arms finally clasped around her body, in the water, capturing her, her skin against his. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him nearer, feeling her breasts against him, her belly, and the soft hair of her sex against his thigh. His penis became hard again, brushing against her. She held it in her hand under the water, gently, teasing it with the softness of her touch. It was then that he kissed her, the taste of her mouth succulent, wonderful. She touched him firmly, fingers and hands searching, feeling the shape, delighting in the hardness, as they kissed. She pressed closely to him still, her hands tickling around his cock, grasping it, like some kind of wild sea anemone taking him in.
She pushed her sexual lips warmly, slippery, upon his thigh as the water waved around them. So close, he wanted to thrust himself within her, right there in the ocean. The swell of tide surrounded their bodies, as they held each other in the sea. Their mouths tasted, kissed as they delighted in each other.
Under the moon, she was more beautiful than he remembered from that afternoon. Her face, the curve of her shoulders, traced by the silver light, transfixed him. He was not sure if it was real, but the spell of this beach, it affected one like a drug. No longer was anything real as it was in the city, the harshness, the concrete. Here, it was as if his body felt more alive, almost vibrating, with all of his erotic nerves awakened.
The surf ebbed for a moment, and the softness of the light and sound surrounding them was as though a thousand feathers were falling to the earth, as though, by magic, he was drugged by desire, and had fallen into some other place. She looked into his face and whispered. “I have been waiting for you to swim at night like this. I have been in the cottage next to yours this entire time.” Her mouth was close to his. He could feel her breath warm near his lips. She held onto his shoulders in the water.
“You have been waiting, then,” he said softly.
“Yes.” Her mouth enclosed around his in a delicate kiss. He kissed her firmly then, his arms around her, suddenly dreaming of Sabina. He tried to push aside the thought of Sabina, but it was impossible. The more he thought of her as he kissed this woman, the more he felt his desire. They went to the shore, drifting closer to the shallow water. She pulled him down upon her, and with her hand, she guided him within her. The sudden intensity of sliding inside of her, exquisite, as pulsating, burning rushes of desire coursed through him like sea-tide. The sight and feel of her gleaming wet body, underneath him, sighing, wanting, gave him a delirious pleasure.
She was offering herself to him; he felt the sense that she washed him of all sadness, of loneliness, of the reasons that brought him here to this beach. The warm ocean tide rushed around their feet and legs like the rise and rhythm of their bodies together.
He tasted her kiss, savoring her mouth. He was lost in the world of her, afraid that it was a dream. Yet, it was real; the still tropical air, the heat of this mysterious woman beneath him, the sound of the waves. Her breath against his mouth, her hands, arms, holding to him fiercely, her sex clutching around him, stirring him to push harder, whirling his sensations into a wave a desire. He kissed her feverishly, wanting nothing but their desire as the sound of their sighs and the waves melted into each other.
Laughing as if drunk, they held each other there upon the shore.
“Come,” she said softly, “let’s go and rest.” They rose and walked together, grabbing their clothes, and nakedly, under the bright moon, went toward the cottages. She held his hand and smiled, and both were quiet, no words needed to be said. He felt content just being with her, entranced by her beauty, her gaze.
At his cottage door, he brought her into his room. He wanted to pleasure her more, and so, as she lay upon his bed, he parted her legs, drawing his mouth near to her sex. In the veiled morning light coming from the slatted window, she looked like some kind of Venus, born from the sea foam, open before him, seashell, abalone, pearl-skinned and radiant. Her breasts high and full, the arc of them curving, her belly, round and fertile, pale and luminous. His tongue lightly brushed the little pearl, her clitoris, her sex like an oyster, as the bottom of his lip grazed her sexual lips. Her scent was fragrant, a mixture of warm rain, musk, and the taste of salt from the seawater, with the sweetness of mango fruit. She responded to his tongue, sighing and moving against his mouth. Her sex was like a wide-open flower, the bud of her arousal like the pistil of an orchid.
He felt his arousal again, his cock hardening and full against the cool sheets of the bed, as he lay between her legs, his mouth upon her sex. With her eyes half open and drowsy with pleasure, she gave a soft smile and pulled him upon her. She wanted him within her again, yet, as he knelt before her, she stopped him with her hands.
She wanted to look at him in the amber daylight, whispering, telling him to lie down, to let her look at him, touch him. She smoothed her hands along his body, washing along his strong legs, wide ankles, feet, toes, gliding her hands, everywhere, upward, to his sex, teasing his hardened cock with her hands again, then his belly, his chest, arms. She knelt between his legs, meeting his eyes with hers, taking his sex in her hands, then within her mouth. Her warm tongue lapped along the length of him, taking it entirely within her lips, savoring the shape of him, languidly, sensuously. It was such an exquisite feeling that he could not bear it; the rhythmic sliding of her hands, her mouth.
The feeling came over him hungrily, impatient, wanting to possess this woman, this woman from the sea, with each undulating sensation she gave him. His body was full of fire as if all the heat of the sun were burning through him. It was as if she embodied every woman he had loved. Reaching for her, pulling her upon him, he entered her moist sex ardently, pushing into her with a surge of passion that rose from his longing.
He made love to her this way, bringing himself close to his own pleasure, and staying within her, waiting. It seemed as though hours had passed, nothing but her, shuddering and rising into the waves of her climax, diving into soft kisses, caresses like water, whispers like sea foam.
Soon the sun was strong and beating through the shade of the trees, through the slats of wood from the windows. He had surrendered to the woman from the sea, a Venus without a name, falling asleep in her arms. Not until he fully awoke in the late afternoon did he realize she was gone.
He looked for her in the cottage next to his. Glancing through the open door, he saw that nothing was there but the simple furnishings; no luggage, no sign of her. The day was shadowed by a late afternoon storm. The breezes picked up as the rain began, and he found himself running towards the hotel office, to see if she was still there, to find her. He asked the clerk at the front desk if the woman in the cottage next to his was still checked in."

Spring Night : yoru no haru

2006-03-12T16:06:00.000-08:00

Of that spring night he
promises
how it fills me with the fragrance
of longing.

I dream of blossoms falling
like rain: pink explosions
of his kisses upon
my pale skin.

The dream of finally seeing cherry blossoms has followed me through the years. I have never seen a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. Once, back in 1995, when I had taken the train across the country, spending most of my time deep in thought, writing whatever came to mind, and observing the passing landscape through the Amtrak window, I arrived in Washington D.C. to visit a lover. It was still winter, and snow was on the ground. I was excited to visit a place I had never been before-- my lover at the time had moved to the capital (where he grew up) after his time living in sunny Los Angeles, so, I had the opportunity to see the District of Columbia.
I stayed for a few days in the city-- saw the Landscape Kimonos of Itchiku Kubota on display, had martinis at a martini bar, ate traditional Italian at a little hole in the wall spot with the red and white checkered cloths and chianti on the table. Then we drove into the countryside of beautiful Virginia. About an hour and a half away from D.C., the wide, rolling hills of Virginia were enchanting. The house we stayed at was a family home/mansion called 'Welbourne'. It was a lovely old manse built in 1776 and owned through generations of the family. By the 1920's it became a bed and breakfast inn. F. Scott Fitzgerald was a family friend and had stayed there. The entire home was rich with history. I spent most of the time reading through their library, walking around the 600 acre grounds of farm, watching the peaceful horses graze and wander, the old hound dogs sleeping upon the porch when I returned, the wintry gray cloud that painted the serene sky like a watercolor.
After staying for several weeks in tranquility that felt untouched by present time, I went back into the city. My train left right before the cherry blossoms opened their pink delicate petals. A day or two later, I was told, they opened and were beautiful.

I dream of seeing the blossoms some day. I read and dream about Kyoto.

Spring also is a symbol for many moments in my life. I feel longing as the way one might wait for spring, through a long winter. It doesn't have to truly be winter, but a kind of winter of the heart. When Persephone returns from the underworld, spring and summer return. Into the darkness again, as the cycle of darkness and light turns, yin and yang, Persephone is once again in the underworld, and night falls upon everything. I have felt the cycle of darkness and then the return of spring to my heart. I am awakening into the spring, once again, coming out of darkness.

memoirs of an artiste

2006-03-11T14:52:00.000-08:00

Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are. – Arthur Golden

During the past year, my life as an artist has been dormant, lying underground, for the winter has buried its existence.

I want to tell you about things that I have not revealed. I want to write about all memory that has been torn away. It is a long sleep that my poetry has been under, the roots grown thick, the damp earth, darkness.

I am a woman, and just like other women, I am layered in the years of my experiences. There are secrets I will tell you, and then, there are the secrets that I only tell myself. My heart has been like a lotus root, waiting, rising in flower.

All of my writing had once been lost. I had kept diaries since I was a child. There was a man in my life who could not stand that I had lived so richly; that I had experienced life more deeply, fully, passionately. Whatever it was that struck him to read my diaries while I was away, was also the reason why he destroyed them. It was raining that day, the day that he took all of my writings and threw them into a large garbage bin in the back of my apartment building-- the collective refuse and pouring rain obliterated all written memories, and pages of my life ran into watery black ink, undecipherable, gone.

The years that followed, I forgot that I ever wrote. I never picked up a pen, nor kept any memory, wrote any poems. I painted large canvases in deep blues, violets. I turned to the brush where my heart once turned to the pen, and discovered the language to be similar. I gave more of my heart and soul to the canvas.